Explore "The Lake of Wine" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The night fell dead and blank, and with it came the snow, crisp, large-flaked, dropping silently as autumn leaves in a windless garden. These were but the pickets of a gathering army -- whose cloudy regiments moved up unwieldily from the north-west, where for weeks they had been forming and manœuvring -- and the world looked indifferently on them, little thinking how presently it should be overwhelmed in the rush of forces of which they were the pioneers.
Sometimes a little galloping wind, like one of a distracted staff, would scatter a company of them right and left; and then to folks within-doors would sound a rubbing noise on window-panes, as if stealthy fingers were feeling for the hasp.